Zucker
by Katzchen
Summary: Taa-daa! I finally figured out how to work this upload stuff (...) *herm* Weiß gets yet another undercover mission-- though not as strippers or night culb dancers (etc.) but as middle school teachers
1. ::chapter 1::

Laah dee dah, minna…my very first Weiß ficcy- ALL HAIL! Weeeell. I have no idea where this is really going, so pleaaaaase (whine whine) review- and suggestions? I'll write pretty much anything… danke shön!  
  
[Ken]  
  
Omi is sitting at the computer, typing a mission report. He certainly has a lot to say about this particular mission, the report is at two pages, and Omi shows no signs of winding it down.  
  
"Erm… Omi-kun… I doubt Persia is going to want to read all that…" I take a step forward and peer over his shoulder.  
  
It's worse than I thought. Omi has given a play-by-play of the mission, including some personal reactions. Most of our mission reports consist of just"target eliminated", but Omi has no intention of making this a normal report. More of a narrative.  
  
" C'mon, Kenken! It went perfectly! It worked out so well! All of us did-"  
  
"Not as well as myself" Youji appears in the doorway. I swear, every time there's more than one person in the room, it becomes a dorm party.  
  
"So Ken- I've been meaning to ask you this- what is up with your little bear claw things? All my life I've thought 'bear-claw' was a pastry." Youji lights a cigarette, striking idle conversation as seems to be his sole purpose in life. Some ashes fall on the floor. If Aya were here, we'd have a Youji-kabob on our hands.  
  
"Um…"  
  
He continues. "And they're so messy! The wire is a nice, neat little weapon. Easy to hide, too. " he inspects his watch, in which the wire is coiled. If one were to look at the watch closely, they would notice that it is perpetually three-thirty. This has made for more than one interesting conversation with strangers who want the time. Youji would make one up, leaving us to wonder how messed up the poor recipient would be later.  
  
"Finiiiiiished!" Omi sings as he twists his hands over his head.  
  
My weapon is forgotten as topic of conversation.  
  
"Great! I'll take it to Manx tonight…" Youji's eyes glaze over and his cigarette falls, forgotten, onto the floor.  
  
Omi chooses to ignore Youji, popping the diskette out of the drive and deleting the file. We can't do anything on paper, because it might be found, and, well, that would be trouble. Instead, we have one little disk that we continually save over. One with a password, for added security. The password is pretty cryptic itself- it's actually "flower" translated into C++. Something only Omi knows. And Persia, I guess.  
  
"So… what's going tonight?" Youji has forgotten that his cigarette is on the floor, occasionally sending up a half-hearted ribbon of smoke, and lights a new one.  
  
The man is going to burn our house down one of these days.  
  
"Not much- Manx wanted to give us a new mission… she didn't say much over the phone, so I'll assume it's nothing too bad…" Omi's in the process of shutting down the computer, which, being the competitive little machine that it is, decided to beat him by freezing. He gives it an impressive lecture on manners and unplugs it.  
  
If computers could smirk, this one would certainly be doing just that.  
  
[Omi]  
  
Manx turns the screen off and turns to face us, smiling as if she's expecting a film crew to materialize and edit her into "Mission Impossible".  
  
"Are you all" She pauses for dramatic effect. "In?"  
  
We all nod.  
  
This woman needs a hobby. I attempt a mad dash to the kitchen. I'm making an effort to act very …un… melodramatic. Mostly because we all act like we're cast in a low budget movie most of the time. Partly because I really want pizza.  
  
What that has to do with anything, I can't say. Actress Supreme has just told us to go out and kill people, but I really want pizza. I think it's got more nicotine in it than any seven of Youji's cigarettes.  
  
"Omi…?"  
  
I'm already up the stairs.  
  
"Okay… that was weird…" Ken's playing Cat's Cradle with a bit of ribbon from the flower shop.  
  
I come down the stairs, armed with the precious pizza.  
  
Manx's film crew must be appalled.  
  
Here we are, big tough assassins, sitting in the basement on this hideous green couch, our only light coming from an equally hideous amber colored lamp. One of us is hopelessly tangled in a string game that third graders can master. One of us (me) is staring lovingly at a slice of pizza. Another is groping on the floor for yet another lost cigarette, causing his sunglasses to slip off his head and land on Manx's foot. The last is leaning against a wall, covered in shadow. A good dramatic pose, but the orange sweater ruins all effect. Aya's sweater and the furnishings down here must have been kin at some point.  
  
I take a bite of pizza, noting with satisfaction the horror on Manx's face, like she's preparing to storm off to her trailer.  
  
[Aya]  
  
Franny Keyes. What kind of name is that.  
  
"Oi Youji! Want some coffee?" Ken holds the pot up in the air.  
  
I don't need and freakish Crawford powers to predict what's going to happen next.  
  
"YEOOOOOOGH!!!!!!" Ken repeats the (well-rehearsed) Dance of the Coffee on Foot.  
  
Youji doesn't give him a hard time, as he has had his own experiences with a vengeful Mr. Coffee. "Sure."  
  
All the machines in this house are dysfunctional. Omi complained to me for nearly an hour about the spiteful computer.  
  
A spiteful PC and a vengeful Mr. Coffee.  
  
Youji takes a sip of coffee. A look crosses his face like he's seen the Grim Reaper, and he dashes out of the kitchen.  
  
Ken inspects his.  
  
Omi munches his pizza.  
  
Back to the file folder in front of me.  
  
It seems the target is a sadistic middle school teacher called "Franny Keyes". In some obscure place in America.  
  
Park Ridge. Why does Kritiker care about the goings on of American suburbs? Not that I'm complaining. It's their money.  
  
Inside the folder are four plane tickets to O'hare Airport. I do not relish the idea of flying with my teammates.  
  
Youji gets airsick. Ken fidgets the entire time. Omi falls asleep.  
  
I relish less the idea of sneaking my katana through airport security. The wire, darts, even bugnucks (or whatever Ken calls those things) could be explained, but a sword is a bit obvious. Large, sharp, shiny object. It's sure to attract the guards like fly paper. I leave the folder on the table- should anyone else want it, they won't have to bother me- and leave the room.  
  
[Youji]  
  
I always assumed I'd die from a mission gone awry, lung cancer, or old age.  
  
Not coffee.  
  
Hidaka no baka, it seems, has different plans for me. But his torment can wait- I need to be in the flower shop in…  
  
Negative fifteen minutes.  
  
Oops. I grab a slice of Omi's precious pizza and speed over to the opening store, holding the pizza in my mouth and fumbling for a key.  
  
Any key.  
  
Finally, I pound on the door, not able to yell because there's pizza conveniently in my mouth.  
  
Ken opens the door for me and gives me a funny look.  
  
I try to snarl back, but the pizza falls to the floor. Oh woe.  
  
Ken cracks up.  
  
It's a little while later- I can't tell what time, exactly, but I'm assuming it's not three-thirty like my watch says- and the shop is boring me out of my mind. We've only had one customer all day, and she didn't buy anything.  
  
The sprinkler drips a bit. I haven't turned it off all the way.  
  
Omi drums his fingers on the counter top.  
  
Drip.  
  
Drip.  
  
Drip.  
  
Drip.  
  
"I'M GOING TO GO INSANE HERE!!!!!!" I throw my hands up in the air and search for the remote control.(Not in the air… never…mind..)  
  
"Which we all knew was a long time in coming" a voice mutters sarcastically by my ear.  
  
I spin around.  
  
"AYA! Gads man, don't sneak up on people!"  
  
He shrugs and turns twists the knob on the sprinkler, then walks to the front of the shop.  
  
The it hits me.  
  
Aya had insulted me.  
  
"Heeeeeey!"  
  
Omi snorts into the watering can.  
  
Ken points at me, his shoulders shaking slightly.  
  
I scowl and turn on the T.V, finding the remote to be under the cash register (I still wonder about that… it's as if the Remote Control Easter Bunny visits us nightly to find new and creative places to stash it.  
  
Again, time passes. (Three-thirty…)  
  
"Okay! Man your battle stations! School let out a minute ago!" Omi shouts, saluting us and moving to his "station" (the window display). I get up with a sigh and slump to the cash register.  
  
I hate middle school girls.  
  
I almost sympathize with that teacher. 


	2. ::chapter 2::

[Ken]  
  
Plane flights are, as a rule, boring. If you think sitting in one chair for an hour with nothing –and I mean nothing- to do is boring, try three and a half hours.  
  
Sure, flying used to be exciting when I was a little kid, but back then going to the park was exciting. Killing people was unheard of. But now, I seemed to do more of the latter, and, well, planes were relatively tame.  
  
I try to read the in flight magazine in English, being that I'm going to be speaking it a lot.  
  
I wonder which I hate more, English or this plane flight.  
  
The mission involves a little more research than we originally thought. We're going to have to stay there a month –hear me- an entire forsaken month, and pose as "TA"s. This is an English acronym for "teaching assistant" which, unfortunately but obviously, means that we're going to have to assist teachers in their…teaching. Aya and I are, at least. Omi's going to be a student. Youji is actually applying to be a teacher of all things. Aya pointed out that he'd have to lie on his resume to become a janitor, and he shouldn't set his sights too high, but Omi insisted that this would give him more of an "inside" look. Inside what? The teacher's lounge, most likely.  
  
I was fairly lucky, getting to be a gym TA. I wonder if I'm supposed to say "Gym teacher's TA" or just "Gym TA". The first one sounds better, but I'm confusing myself.  
  
Not that I have anything better to do.  
  
I turn on the fan.  
  
Big thrill there.  
  
I turn it off.  
  
And on again.  
  
And off.  
  
And on again.  
  
Aya glares a stake through my heart.  
  
Omi's head falls on my shoulder. I think he passed out before the plane took off. Omi's one of those lucky people who are able to sleep through plane flights. Omi takes this a step further, though, and he just shuts off as if he left his life force on the ground.  
  
Youji is…somewhere.  
  
I wonder what Omi thinks about when he's asleep. Maybe, if he's lucky enough to sleep through plane flights, maybe he's lucky enough to not have any weird dreams.  
  
I have neither of those talents.  
  
Will this flight ever end? It's dark out now, the white wing of the plane swallowed in thick, impermiable black.  
  
Weiß.  
  
Shwarz.  
  
Eternity seems to be in black and white.  
  
Some obscure light blinks on the wing, illuminating it briefly before the darkness closes in sullenly.  
  
Weiß.  
  
Shwarz.  
  
Excuse me while I drown in irony- obvious irony that I seem to have totally missed the point of.  
  
[Omi]  
  
I contemplate falling asleep in the car, but Ken would probably toss me out the window and straight into the lake. What is it? Lake Michigan? Weird name.  
  
He seemed to resent the fact that I had slept through the entire plane ride, and has told me so…over a hundred times.  
  
It's four o'clock in the morning.  
  
Even Ken is asleep now (I wonder just how much torture I can leech out of this tomorrow…today…whatever)  
  
Youji's sitting in the passenger seat, snoring. It's really bugging me. Aya's driving. I wonder if he knows where we're going, it's been a heckuva long time and we haven't stopped.  
  
"Ayaaaaaa…?"  
  
Aya bounces a glare off the rearview mirror to nail me in the forehead. "What?"  
  
"Well… I was just wondering if maybe… oh… you know where we're going?"  
  
"I do."  
  
"Oh, Okay."  
  
Long pause.  
  
I think I must have fallen asleep again. But when I woke up, we were parked on the side of the road, the headlights on, and Aya…gone. Ken blinked a few times and gave me a questioning look. Youji….snored.  
  
The area seemed very residential now, quiet streets full of normal people sleeping.  
  
Ah, to be normal.  
  
"Ohmygosh I am SOOOO sorry! Sorrysorrysorrysorry!! I mean… we usually don't get many people around here at night…morning…. Whatever this is…"  
  
That's not Aya.  
  
It sounds like a girl. I roll down the window. There are three girls standing in a half circle around Aya, who, aside from looking very tired, is about to kill them in increasingly gory ways.  
  
Sorry, Aya, but this should be good. I open the door and get up, almost tripping over Ken, who is asleep again.  
  
"Ohayo!"  
  
Aya stares at me.  
  
"Erm… Good morning." I think that's right.  
  
Maybe it wasn't. This makes them freak out all over again.  
  
"What happened?" I ask Aya in Japanese.  
  
"They hit us." He answers, glaring haggardly at the girls.  
  
"Dai- erm.. are you all okay?" I shouldn't rule out the possibility of injury…  
  
"Of course! We're just reaaaaaaally sorry, and, if there's anything we can do…"  
  
Can they speak for themselves? I wonder.  
  
"No. It is fine. Good da-"  
  
"Heeeeey! There's somethin' you can do for meeee!"  
  
Youji is out of the car. Dang.  
  
"…sorry?"  
  
Three confused looks.  
  
"We're in America, Youji-kun. Go back in the car."  
  
He obliges.  
  
This is the weirdest forsaken night….argh. 


	3. ::chapter 3::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~[no POV!!!Whoot^^]  
  
For those select few people who appreciate early mornings, it was a beautiful one. For the rest of the population-  
  
Four alarm clocks went off, followed by strings of vicious curses at intervals as the owners of the alarm clocks woke.  
  
Several birds had the nerve to chirp.  
  
…Half an hour later…  
  
"Wow! It's really nice out today!" Now that the initial shock of having yet another morning shoved in his face, Omi was beginning to act a little more like his cheerful self.  
  
Cheerful selves, however, were under appreciated in the morning, especially when a group of assassins had gotten less than three hours of sleep.  
  
Youji muttered something to the effect of "**** off, Omi. Or show me where you've been keeping the coffee." With that, he put his head down on the table and fell asleep.  
  
Ken poked him with a tong (used for salvaging the charred remains of toast from his fully capable explosive known as a toaster) "dead." Seemed to be the verdict. Then Ken was back to his toast.  
  
"We have to be at the school in about twenty minutes." Aya announced from the stairs.  
  
He was wearing glasses.  
  
Omi , Ken and Youji had never seen Aya wear glasses. Of course, they hadn't driven all night with malfunctioning headlights…  
  
"Comment, and I shall see to it that you are given the same treatment as Ken's toast." He gestured to the toast, starting to glow an evil orange.  
  
Ken yelped and set to work with the wooden tongs. The toast came out in small, blackened, smoldering and still glowing pieces. Aya raised an eyebrow- Ken had just improved his threat.  
  
"Okay- so… everyone knows their assignments?" Omi gulped and looked away from the death threat/toast.  
  
"Gym teacher. Gym. Isn't that a weird word?" Ken dug for another piece of bread.  
  
The toast, however forgotten, had other ideas. A small flame started on the corner of a nearby napkin. 


	4. ::chapter 4 (!)::

[Omi]  
  
Argh. I have to be a student. How degrading, Apparently this school is a middle school and a high school in one. How special. So, I get to be the senior-year transfer student. I have a normal schedule, except for "English as a second language" I think my English is pretty good, thank you, but the school board has other ideas. The students here are very…interesting, to say the least. I fancy many of them to be more disturbed than me. The bell for first period rings, and I leave homeroom, reminding myself that this is all in the name of a mission, all in the…screw this. I hate school  
  
[Ken]  
  
Okay, I'm supposed to be the one who likes kids. I do. But teenagers are a much different story here. I have no idea how to even get them to run. Too much apathy….  
  
The actual teacher is long gone. He gave me this sort of glazed look and left, muttering about salvation.  
  
The kids stare at me. I can see the "let's drive the new TA to a mental institution" looks on their faces.  
  
I'd dearly like to tell them that the new TA is an assassin, and happens to have his weapon of choice conveniently in the trunk of his car.  
  
"Okay. The lesson plan says that we're supposed to be playing lacrosse." I give them stare for stare, desperate for a plan. Bingo. "But since I've never even heard of that before, I can't really teach anything about it. So."  
  
This piques their interest. Yes, what will the new, clueless teacher do?  
  
"We'll play soccer. The nets are already on the field, so we won't have to set anything up." Kami-sama…let this work…  
  
[Youji]  
  
They actually let me teach here! Amazing. Granted, it is as a foods teacher, but if you overlook that minor detail, I did pretty dang well. Well. The principal gave me a schedule-looking thing that says all the stuff I'm supposed to do over the course of a year. I won't be staying that long, but who needs to know.  
  
Cinnamon ro…what the heck? I've never heard of half these things… I hand out the recipe to the students, who look about as disgusted as me, and retreat to my desk. Ye gods, if there's a fire…  
  
[Aya]  
  
The students seem to be in a somewhat restless mood first period. Also known in some cultures as a "drive the TA to drink" mood. I try to look occupied in grading worksheets (which are atrocious, might I add) while taking notes on a legal pad about the layout of the school. The actual physics teacher introduced me, sent me to a desk with a pile of worksheets and a somewhat dry red pen. If English is hard enough for me to read in the first place, the unintelligible scrawls of these students is up there with ancient runes. Someone throws a piece of paper folded sloppily into the shape of a triangle in my general direction. I catch it and glare back at the student. She gets a sad look on her face and turns to face the board again. Yes, torques are about the most sane things in this classroom…  
  
Seven out of twenty? How can you sit in a classroom and not learn…oh, nevermind. 


	5. ::chapter 5::

[Wow! I actually got reviews! This amazing! Excuse me while I print them and shove them in my scrapbook. Well. If anyone's wondering why the story has suddenly…erm.. deteriorated, that's mostly due to the fact that I just…erm….can't write O_O. Which, in turn, can be attributed to the fact that I have no frickin' clue where this is going. This is why I'm on my knees here, humbly begging that you give me your plot suggestions. Be they one word (i.e.: kiwis) hey! That's actually a halfway decent idea… they could catch an illegal…kiwi smuggler and…O_O anyhoo, I've just been reading random fics and what the MOO is a beta? A little help…]  
  
[Ken]  
  
I made it. I actually made it out of an apathetic mass of self-important chibis. I actually made it. I try to put the soccer balls in some sort of order, preparing to tear out of this school like I'd been given an opportunity to escape damnation. Okay, a pile, roughly a circle of soccer balls, but it's good enough. I'm a TA, not a janitor. A slightly organizationally challenged one, but we mostly overlook that. I take a few hasty steps toward my car, then break into a run. Must get out of here before they eat me…  
  
I skid (literally- there's a lot of loose gravel in this lot I didn't notice before) to a stop in front of the car and fumble in my pocket for the car keys.  
  
It's a rental, a big, ugly, green van with a ski rack at the top. The ski rack serves no purpose known to me, but Youji "ordered" the car, and, maybe he knows something I don't. Maybe he thinks we're going skiing? Ah. Here we are. The key with the orange tag and some completely illegible English on it. I think it's a serial code or something, but if you turn it sideways it looks like someone's daughter drew a bunny. I shove it in the little key hole thing.  
  
It's upside down.  
  
I shove it again.  
  
The door still won't open.  
  
I jab to key in the general direction of the lock several times.  
  
It still won't open.  
  
What's wrong with this thing?  
  
I'm locked outside my car.  
  
Smooth, Hidaka, smooth.  
  
I lean against the front door, deciding to look nonchalant until Aya, Youji or Omi gets here.  
  
This nonchalance stuff is harder than it looks, as I have absolutely nothing to do. A newspaper would have helped a lot…or even something to look at…  
  
Teachers who weren't as quick in their escape as me are starting to trickle into the parking lot, looking very important and, well, looking at me.  
  
I can almost hear their thoughts.  
  
1 Incompetence will be the death of the Western civilization! What an idiotic assistant…  
  
Nyah. Bite me.  
  
[Omi]  
  
I made it through a day of school! Needless to say, I was kind of hoping that maybe a mission in another country might get me out of school, but then again, that might be asking a little too much.  
  
School must run all lives, even of those who habitually take them.  
  
I try to remember what homework was assigned.  
  
I can't.  
  
Not that I'm planning on doing it anyway, but sometimes we need to prepare for the inevitable losing of sanity.  
  
I decide to dump the books that I'm currently carrying into my backpack (a wonderfully impractical yet authentic American school necessity) and wrestle it off the little coat hook and out of my locker.  
  
Lockers are generally horrid, but this one seems very ambitious in the horridness category, even for a locker.  
  
To start, it's orange. Not Tropicana Pure Premium orange, more like Aya's Sweater Orange, The paint is chipped off in some places, revealing an even more revolting guacamole green.  
  
While we're discussing the outside of the locker, I'd like to add that it's about as thick as seven toothpicks bound with duct tape.  
  
And then there's the inside. In the short version,  
  
Rust.  
  
Holes.  
  
Possible alien life forms.  
  
Such is the fate of those who come in the middle of the year, when the locker left are those previously in locker death row.  
  
Ah well.  
  
It's all in the name of work, anyway. No matter what school things they do to me here, I can take comfort in the fact that I am part of a much more intricate, dangerous night life than the rest of the students.  
  
Am I better than they are?  
  
If I am, the universe is indeed as twisted as it has shown me in the past.  
  
I slam the locker door, after several tries it gives a submissive groan and creaks into place.  
  
Not bothering to spin the lock (I don't want to move it any more than necessary – I'm not all too sure that's really gum on the dial) I walk awaaaaaay from the locker, going into assassin mode again.  
  
I peek into classrooms. Oh yes, peeking into classrooms. So very scary we are.  
  
Lessee here…  
  
Empty…  
  
Empty…  
  
Locked…  
  
Empty… with a bag of cookies on the desk…hm…  
  
Locked…  
  
Why are all the doors in this school either locked or empty?!?! School's only been over for about fifteen minutes! What's wrong with these people?  
  
Ah. What's this?  
  
"Are you here for detention, sonny?" a very angry beluga whale is towering over me, brandishing an ungraded test and scowling something fierce. I can never escape these scowls, it seems.  
  
"ah..no." I get the heck out of there. Sonny?  
  
[Youji]  
  
I swear, half of these children must be related to Ken. At least, they have inherited his pyromaniacal talents through some strange fluke. It turns out that we weren't making the cinnamon (what the heck kind of word is that? It has two "n"s. What do you do with two "n"s?) things, we were measuring the combustibility of the ingredients.  
  
High.  
  
Seven periods of this! This was not in the job description.  
  
Of being an assassin, I mean.  
  
I didn't read the job description of teaching.  
  
Heck- I didn't even read the resume.  
  
Well, positive things… I learned how to use a fire extinguisher today… um…  
  
I walk down the hallway, smoking a cigarette (nobody specifically told me not to…) and swinging my briefcase. (Yeah, a briefcase. Lah.)  
  
Okay, apparently I've been going down the right hallway, because I can see the faculty parking lot through the glass doors.  
  
I walk through rows of cars (the number of rows having doubled since we came) and find our car. I put the key in the door, open it, take the key out, and start the car.  
  
Wait.  
  
I should wait for the rest of the team.  
  
Argh… can they hurry? Ken was going on about being the first person out of the school…  
  
I lean against the driver's door (on the wrong side, just to bother me) and wait…  
  
[Aya]  
  
After spending my day interpreting ancient glyphs on worksheets (without the aid of the Rosetta Stone, no less) I'm able to escape whatever other torturous post classroom activities my mentor has planned, only to find  
  
Ken leaning on one car, sleeping.  
  
Youji leaning on another, smoking.  
  
Unless I'm seeing double (quite possible, considering the circumstances) or have missed some major decrease of money…  
  
We did not rent two cars,  
  
This promises to be interesting, or very trying of patience, or both.  
  
I walk over to Youji first.  
  
"What re you doing?"  
  
"Waiting for you, Ken and Omi."  
  
"Ken."  
  
"Yeah, Ken and Omi. I just said that."  
  
"Ken's right there." I gesture to the former soccer player, who seemed to be engrossed in loose gravel.  
  
Youji pulls his sunglasses lower on his nose (dangerously so) and squints in Ken's general direction. After a few seconds, Youji radar locates him without the aid of obsessively protected sight.  
  
Ken lifts his arms in a Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil pose, clearly confused.  
  
And then Omi pops up behind me.  
  
"So which is our car?"  
  
"This one." Youji pushes his sunglasses back up on his nose.  
  
"This one!" Ken shouts to us.  
  
This team is giving me a headache. I reach for my wallet and take out the key. The plastic covered tag chain has the license number on it…  
  
More illegible handwriting. It haunts me.  
  
"Okay! Youji's got the right car, get over here before that one's owner comes back!" Omi calls, apparently leaning over my shoulder and more adept at reading physician-turned-rental serviceman handwriting.  
  
Ken jogs over, muttering something about "no wonder the key didn't work".  
  
This is going to be a very long mission 


	6. ::chapter 6::

[Omi]

If you're a bad student, you can remedy that by studying, doing homework, or cheating. I'm not advocating it, just musing. Well, if you're bad at a sport, you can practice, practice, or cheat. 

But what to do if you're a bad assassin? I haven't quite figured out how to —practice- it and as for cheating, well, it's hard to cheat at things that aren't quite legal in the first place.

My reason for these sudden insecurities is that I accomplished absolutely nothing today. I tried, I really did. But I couldn't remember a thing about the target. Name, I remembered. Height, no. Gender, no. Hair color, no. Reason for being a target, no. Seat number on incoming airplane, yes. Names of all seven Hertz employees, yes. 

Youji turns to me. It's inevitable. 

"What'd you find out, Chibi?"

I can think of at least seven ways Aya could kill me by use of objects in the living room. I can think of thirteen more involving kitchen implements. About eighty involving his bare hands and/or eyes, twenty-

"Omi. Do you have any information reguarding the mission to give us?"

I envy Youji's UV protective sunglasses. As "ultraviolet glare" would be the best words to describe the look I was getting. Corny, yes, but we can't all be witty when under fire.

I hold onto my notebook, as if it can save me. More likely than Youji.

Now, how to make this less painful. What to say

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned

Um..

"Actually, nothing"

I give my best innocent smile and pray for some mercy.

Youji blinks.

Aya blinks.

If Ken were here he'd blink too. But as it is, he's battling the washing machine with American currency.

I just thought I'd stay low andlearn the lay of the school today. Rather than snooping and"

Youji accepts this.

Aya blinks again.

"Be that as it may, I suggest you take the data folder with you tomorrow. The less time we spend on this, the easier it will be."

I have a sneaking suspicion I didn't fool him.

[Ken] I never liked doing laundry in the first place. It's basically sitting next to a row of large, irritable looking machines full of boiling water as they spin your clothes around in hypnotic circles. And then you have to pay them. Not my idea of fun.

But somehow, I ended up in this small room of washing machines. Right now I'm waiting.

I've been doing so for at least three months.

The place that I'm at happens to be a block away from our current residence (some guy got transferred to London for a year, and is renting us his house. Persia got it for us. Persia has "connections".) This is what Omi calls "convenient". I call it walking past who knows how many people with a basket of clothes. It's very embarrassing.

But somehow I got here, after several narrow run ins with homicidal MAC trucks.

There's only one other person in here with me, a kind of oldish lady who looks well, kid of familiar, actually. Better her company than none at all

"How's it going?" I ask casually. As if I don't know. The washing machine is probably driving her insane as well.

No answer. 

Washing machine, one. Old lady,zero.

The building itself is all white inside (save the corners, where the white linoleum has turned yellow and is curling away from the floor) and has the general feel of a low budget hospital.

It smells of fabric softener rather than antiseptic, and has rows of washing machines instead of rooms, but the whiteness and mechanical hum are the same. 

I think it's a marketing scheme, if you make something white, people automatically assume it's clean, and what better place to —wash- things than a very, very clean one?

The machine clicks and slowly winds down with a sort of broken thump.

I get the laundry out, put it into the basket and leave. Quickly.

That lady still hasn't said anything.

Ken, one. Washing machine, zero.

And now to cross the street

[Youji] I swear, other missions we've had could be described as "dangerous" or "gruesome" or at least "quick". "Bloody", maybe. But never have we had "weird, impossible, and comical". This isn't the Kritiker Way. See, most assassins (if not all) are arguably the most messed up people in, well, the entire world. We have more problems than most college entry exams. So, in return for being generally deranged, we get to live a very surreal life. Black, leather, sunglasses, guns, doting women, fast cars. Killers are sexy. It's our birthright. 

But first we get stuck in a flower shop. That was bad, but at least our nightlife was interesting. At least we had an under lit room with a giant screen. Ignoring that said room was ugly

Now, we get to interact with small children all day. We get to replenish their Kleenex supply and run off copies of worksheets. We get to grade those worksheets at home.

I feel we, as assassins, are being publicly mocked.

I try to comb my hair into some semblance of order. Last night, Ken had lurched in the screen door with our laundry; He deposited it in a heap on the couch and bounded upstairs. 

This morning I had extracted something that seemed to be mine from the pile, which crackled in warning. Yes, Kenken had forgotten to use fabric softener, or whatever that stuff is that makes it un-staticy. 

The effect on my hair was immediate and devastating.

Hair gel. Need hair gel.

I root through the cabinets in the bathroom, praying that one of my teammates had the presence of mind to

No. of course not. 

Ah, here we are. Who says I'm not resourceful?

Someone knocks on the bathroom door, then opens it without waiting for my response. Ken, the very one who is responsible for my electrocuted hair..

"Kudou, are you putting aloe vera in your hair?" He gawks for a second and retrieves a few towels.

"Watcha gonna do with those, Kenken?" I don't seem to remember a towel fetish.

"Goin' to put out the toast."

Of course. Why hadn't I though of that.

[Omi] the thing about living far away from school, with three of your teammates, a rental car and various degrees of cluelessness is that you never get to school on time. First, Ken's customary bonfire burnt through three towels he was trying to put it out with, changing the house's smell of burnt toast to burnt towel. Which is a very odd one indeed.

Then Youji strolls downstairs, and Ken makes a comment about aloe and Youji's hair.

By that time, I should have been in my first period class.

Fifteen minutes later, we head out. I have the mission information in my binder today, so I can keep an eye out for the target. Rapture.

After catching every red light in this town, some in the next town over, and sometimes just stopping at the green lights, we arrive at school. I forgo the battle of wills with my locker and sneak into first period, hoping they've forgotten to take attendance.

"Mr. Tasukiyo Omi. Where have you been?"

The teacher recovers nicely from the horrors of my surname and manages to glare over his glasses. Which is not easily done, considering the fact that they are the large, cricket-eyed types that would probably overbalance if he put them on his nose. Point.

"Sorry, my ride was late" I unleashed the Chibi Eyes of Guilt and blinked to increase their destructive power.

"Very well, just try to arrive on time in the future" 

I nod as if I will devote myself heart and soul to being punctual.

Bleargh, another fun fun day of school. 

[Aya] teachers are an under-appreciated lot, really. The fact that they can glare passively as thousands of students ignore them completely. I get enough ignorance (in more ways than one) from my teammates. And now

"How could I have failed this?"

A particularly annoying student waves a paper in my face. I look it over briefly.

"Well, I assume that if you want to do well you could make an effort to do the assigned work?" I suggested. I thought it was fairly kind, for me, almost civil. But her face turned red and she removed the paper from mine.

The blank paper, might I add. Save my (civil) red mark at the top. Yes, teachers have to have the strength of will to keep I stared at the wall. This room will be intact with all its inhabitants alive and whole by the end of the day. Say nothing for pencils.

"Mr. Fujimiya, if you could please grade these worksheets" the teacher, whose name temporarily escapes me (it was something almost as strange as the classroom) appears in front of me and slaps a sheath of papers on my desk. On top of my hand, actually, but it seems that people overlook me rather easily here. This could be an advantage, or it could be annoying. Right now, with my hand trapped under several pounds of raw paperweight, it's annoying.

"Thanks!" The teacher raises a hand to me (to show that he is not hostile, in the way of the first Americans? Or out of laziness?) I look down to the papers, extracting my hand and uncapping the business end of a red pen. Of which I will go through many. You know the red looks a bit like blood. Red blood students running them through with a I mean yes. This class is mortally boring, so I have some excuse. 

[Ken] Oh, well this is just **great**. Just lovely. Just wonderful. Just effing great. See, I found a little piece of unobtrusive paper in my mailbox, giving me the new month's lesson plan. First on the list, badminton. 

Okay, this is bad. I've never heard of this sport.

Second, I can barely say it.

Third, I have to teach it to blood sucking preteens in four minutes.

Oh, crud.

"Um yeah.. today we start baduminton.. bad..badminton. Ahem. Well, I guess you should all get your little" I looked at the packet they gave me "rackets. And balls. Shuttlecocks. Meet on the field"

A student raises a hand halfway. "Um you can't play badminton outside."

And now they've cut off my escape route.

"Oh. Well then you can just meet in the field house"

They accept this and slouch off in the direction of the field house. I read over the packet thing. It is complete with some really frightening drawings of old men holding badminton rackets. They have some sort of shorts that look like kilts on, also 

But for all its fashion sense, the packet gives me a bit of an idea what badminton is about. And from what I've observed of other teachers, you don't have to know what you're doing to teach gym. The kids won't listen to you anyway, so you basically have to be good at doing nothing for long periods of time and complaining about it.

I've gotten that down quite well.

We make it to the field house, and I start to talk at them.

"Okay, sofirst you should practice.. um do what's this.." I look down to the packet again "clear, clear, drop smash, smash." Yeah. That's apparently Badminton-ese for "Hit it really high twice, barely tap it over the net, and try to drive the shuttlecock through your opponent's heart."

This works well for me, because, as taxing as teaching gym is, there is (supposedly) a mission, and (supposedly) work to do. Though I'm for the plan of killing everyone in this school, assuming that one person will be the target. But we can't all have our ways, and our Frostee Leader thinks that mass murder would be conspicuous. A lot he knows. 

Omi has taken the precious manila folder with him, so I get to go from memory. Okay, the target has "light brown hair" this eliminates all of three teachers. Is "about 5'3". (ooh, look at the special assassins not using metric) this eliminates another two. 

I go through the list mentally, flipping through a yearbook (that someone left in his gym locker it wasn't my fault I had a key) and looking for a match,

The yearbook pictures are in black and white, which doesn't help me at all.

Here we are, 

Franny Keyes.

We had automatically assumed that the target would be using an alias, but perhaps we underestimated her. 

Good Ken, good. Maybe you'll get a cookie when you get home.

I am alone with nothing but my happy thoughts until a shuttlecock comes flying into my face.

My eye, to be precise.

And for all their looks of being cream puffs with feathers, those things can _hurt_.

Badly,

I swear, it took my eye out.

The evil student who attempted my murder mumbles something I presume to be an apology, and skitters off.

[Omi] I can imagine not getting any information for the mission. I did that yesterday. But in its defense, yesterday I couldn't imagine getting the mission information confiscated. Yes. 

I was reading over it in class, when the teacher swoops over to my desk and materializes peering over my shoulder. Then she made a nasty little remark about paying attention, snatched the folder, and swooped back to her desk to continue the lecture.

I was dumbfounded. 

I had never been so dead in my entire life.

And so I sit in the nurse's office, pretending to be sick or something (I forgot the excuse I gave, but I'm sitting on a cot. So it wasn't "I'm dead" which is the phrase that's running through my mind right now)

I need to figure out how to get that folder back. 

If I don't, not only am I going to be sacrificed to Persia.

I hope that teacher doesn't have a habit of reading the things she confiscates. 

I also hope that none of my teammates are inclined to eat their own

I'm drowning in my misery, silent and out of the way, when I find a hand on my head.

"Ken?!?!" It certainly feels like Ken's hand, and he's the only one who ever assumed my head was that of a small, fuzzy mammal. Or a walking stick.

"Chibi! Fancy meeting you here!"

I think I might have turned a nice shade of cyan, because he gives me a strange look (after removing his hand, it wouldn't be possible otherwise) and says something to the effect of "Yeesh.. I guess they really do have a purpose behind vaccinations."

Oh yes, Ken. Think that I've caught a strange American virus. Think that I've gotten malaria. Think that I'm turning into a monster. Think I've done anything other than lose the mission folder.

"Well, I guess we should take you home?" He's holding an ice pack to his left eye. I guess one of the gym students got fed up with soccer rants and, well, socked her. Him. Bad pun. Bad.

"No. No. Don't take me home here. I'll stay here. Here is good." I babble furiously to get my point across.

But it works.

He shrugs and walks out, saying something I could swear was " darn badminton" I think Ken needs to work a bit on dictation.

[Baaah twas a bad chapter. Next will be better, I promise! Really! Did Youji even have a POV here? I forgot]


End file.
